


Salad Days

by lori (zakhad), zakhad



Series: Captain and Counselor, the revised versions [28]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 03:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21313603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/zakhad
Summary: Pregnancy, the Final Frontier...The old series focused on things a little differently than this."Salad days" is a Shakespearean idiomatic expression meaning a youthful time, accompanied by the inexperience, enthusiasm, idealism, innocence, or indiscretion that one associates with a young person. A more modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a heyday, a period when somebody was at the peak of their abilities—not necessarily in that person's youth. The quote "salad days" is from the Shakespearean play Antony and Cleopatra and is spoken in Act 1, Scene 5, by Cleopatra.- Wikipedia
Relationships: Jean-Luc Picard/Deanna Troi
Series: Captain and Counselor, the revised versions [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1222406
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

"How is Deanna?"

The question was beginning to annoy. Jean-Luc Picard turned to Malia, still holding her oboe and waiting patiently for an answer. He schooled himself to set aside the irritation and give the woman who ran the ship's school a minimal smile. He couldn't snap at civilian staff, they were outside his chain of command, he told himself, and Malia was likely to be responsible for the education of his own child before long.

That in itself was a jarring thought, still.

"She's well," he said succinctly. 

"So the morning sickness is getting better?" 

He kept the diplomatic smile firmly in place and now tried not to show his concern about his wife. The ups and downs of watching her nauseated and out of sorts had started around week seven. And that was another new experience -- counting down the weeks, to the child's birth, seemed to be the norm. Now that everyone knew about her condition, he'd noticed Deanna was subjected to commentary especially from the mothers aboard, about what she might expect in the weeks to come. 

Malia took his silence for confirmation. "I should give you my mother's recipe for ginger tea -- it worked wonders, when I was going through it."

"Thank you, Malia. I'm sure she will appreciate it." 

He departed the practice room before the other three ensemble members could finish putting away their instruments and ply him with questions or offer suggestions. It seemed as though everyone had an idea of how Deanna should do things. Never mind that none of them were Betazoid, and some of the crew were not human either, all of them seemed to know how to help her through it.

He arrived in their quarters and put his Ressikan flute on the shelf with the _naiskos_, then went to the nursery. He expected to find her doing as she had said she would, continuing to decorate the room, but she wasn't there. The pieces of wood he was working with to build a crib still sat in a corner, a changing table stood against one wall, and the table he'd set up as a work surface stood against the opposite wall, half of it covered with toys and clothing that were accumulating for the baby. Malia had conceded to Deanna's request for no baby shower, but then random people were giving them things on their own schedule. 

He crossing the living room to their bedroom, then when that was empty onward to the bathroom. Both empty. His sigh sounded loud, in the confines of the bathroom. "Computer, where is Commander Troi?" he asked as he strode back through to their living area.

"Commander Troi is in holodeck four."

While he was on his way to find her, he found Geordi in a lift. "Good evening, Captain," Geordi exclaimed. "Some of us are getting together on holodeck two to spend some time in the mountains of Agasoria. You're welcome to join us."

"Thank you, but I'm on my way to holodeck four. I hear Agasoria is beautiful in summer. Will you be caving or climbing?"

"Batris is taking us climbing." Geordi seemed to be studying his face. "Everything all right?"

"So far as I know. Have a good evening, Mr. LaForge." He was in motion as the lift opened, and was past holodeck one before Geordi exited the lift.

Jean-Luc slowed as he approached the door to holodeck four, as it occurred to him that Deanna might not welcome his presence. She'd been moody lately as well. She spent most of the day closed off from him, because her mood swings were unpredictable and she didn't want to add to his anxiety about the pregnancy by flooding him during one of her hormonal moments. 

While he stood there in the corridor hesitating, she was with him, suddenly. _Come in._

The program running just inside the doors reminded him of a Roman bath house. As the door closed behind him, he crossed bleached tiles to a large sunken tub in the middle of the pavement and looked down at Deanna, who was reclining in what appeared to be mud. She had piled up her hair on the crown of her head and there were muddy fingerprints on her cheeks. Her clothes lay on the tiles near the edge.

"Is it helping?"

Her wan smile was somewhat reassuring. "I'm warmer, anyway."

He did not mention possibly putting on more clothing or changing the ambient temperature in their quarters -- re-learning the lesson that finding solutions was not helpful didn't appeal to him. Counselor Davidson had already suggested that going along with whatever helped her would be smarter, regardless of whether her solution made any sense. He knelt and reached down to touch the mud with his fingers. It was indeed very warm. Her flushed skin was proof of that. 

"How was practice?"

"Our next concert will feature the works of Mendelssohn," he said. "Whether it will be recognized as such remains to be seen. Lieutenant Simms is working hard to catch up with the rest of us, and I let myself get out of practice. But, we may yet pull it off." Simms was new to the ensemble and also relatively inexperienced with his instrument. It was a steep learning curve for the violinist. Losing Data had been a blow to the ensemble.

"Are you coming in?"

Jean-Luc touched the surface of the deep reddish-brown mud again. It wasn't a texture that appealed to him. But she gazed up at him with wide eyes, and now that she wasn't actively blocking him out, he could tell she still felt the fatigue. He knew that day to day she also experienced anxiety, as she spent her days on duty trying to do her job to the best of her ability while fending off commentary on her pregnancy. Insecurity was understandable, as this was her first real pregnancy. And he knew she still remembered Ian, the strange alien who took advantage of her for a few days before disappearing into the cosmos once more. Losing him seemed to have primed her to worry about losing their baby, irrational as she knew that was, and each time she felt that anxiety she struggled within herself to set aside feelings she couldn't quite control. 

At the moment though, she was feeling none of that. Something about sitting in this peaty-smelling bog was easing her mind.

Rising to his feet, he started to take off his jacket. The implicit affirmation that he would join her made her happy; she knew he didn't like mud baths. But, she was more important than avoiding mud.

"Would you like me to replicate anything for you before I get in?" The computer could, of course, deliver the item to the poolside. 

"Lekarra?"

He stifled the sigh and turned to drape his jacket over a low wall at the edge of the pavement. Of course. In addition to smelling like mud, she would smell like pickle brine.

"And breath mints," she added, smiling up at him, reading his emotions as always. 

Chuckling, Jean-Luc asked for the pickles, the breath mints, and a glass of water for himself. Sitting in mud seemed to dehydrate him.


	2. Chapter 2

The blond wood felt smooth already beneath his hands. Jean-Luc picked up the headboard and settled it on the workbench. Lining up the template, he clamped it to the wood at the corners. He traced the openings with a fingertip and eyed the pattern; he wouldn't have the chance to change it once it was begun. Considering, he studied the grain of the wood, striations of rich honey against pale cream, picking up the piece to look at the other side before reaching for the router.

The bits of wood flying under the bit of the hand-held tool spattered against his apron. When the long crescent was a millimeter deep, he turned his attention to the constellation of stars in the upper left corner, the stylized rays taking shape swiftly. He hummed as he worked the border, a long scalloped line up the side, across the curved top edge, and down the other side.

When he turned off the router he heard, finally, the annunciator. "Come in," he called, preoccupied with brushing dust and flakes from the grooves and picking up a piece of sanding paper. He heard the door open and close, and a murmur of voices.

"Hey, there."

He glanced over his shoulder. Will stood in the door of the spare room that was to be the nursery. "Good morning," Jean-Luc said. "Welcome aboard." They were at a starbase, and Will and his vessel had already been there in orbit. While some of the crew got a few hours of leave and a few transfers disembarked, they had an opportunity to see their friends for a while.

"What's the project? I didn't know you were into woodworking." Will's blue eyes burned with curiosity as he came further in. Bell Sumners came in after him, smiling, and Jean-Luc put down the sandpaper.

"_Belle chère, il est bon de vous voir._" He kissed her cheek when she came to greet him in like fashion. 

"What's the project? Is this for the baby?" she asked brightly, smiling and running a finger along the crescent.

"If I don't turn it into kindling." He removed the clamps and set aside the template. "This is one end. The other is there, drying."

Will and Bell both looked at the varnished board standing in a pair of clamps next to the workbench. Will smiled appreciatively and pointed with his bearded chin at it. "Is that a flock of swans?"

"Over a pond of fish. Yes."

"And the moon and stars, for space," Bell said.

Jean-Luc smiled slyly. "Not exactly. This is his mother, the constellation is his father."

"Ah." Bell studied it, and frowned. "I don't understand, _cher_."

"Pisces. And the moon."

"But not cygnus?" Will asked, coming to look over Bell's shoulder.

"Diana was the goddess of the moon."

Will laughed at that. "And what are you the god of?"

Jean-Luc smiled and waved the question away. "Are you here for the afternoon, or do you have to rush off?"

"We have time enough to hang around for a day or so. On our way out to explore, no crisis or set mission to attend." Will glanced at some of the other pieces of wood leaning against the wall. "What else are you making?"

"If I'm brave enough, a rocking chair. I'll get Dee." He pulled the apron over his head and draped it on the workbench. "She's taking a nap."

"She's not on the bridge?" Will asked, as they followed Jean-Luc out into the main living area.

"Had a PFO alert. Carlisle's filling in for the afternoon."

"PFO alert. That's not mentioned in _my_ copy of standard operating procedures."

"Pregnant first officer. The first three months she was only mildly moody once in a while, nothing spectacular, but the last few weeks have been interesting. This morning she started to cry and couldn't stop. Seems to have something to do with levels of emotional stress of those around her, but it's not always that simple. Be right back."

He left them and closed the bedroom door behind him, quietly moving to the end of the bed. Wearing a loose white dress, Deanna lay sprawled on her stomach, the covers bunched under her, her hair in disarray and her face buried in a pillow. He debated making excuses and leaving her sleeping. She'd done more than cry; she'd been so upset at herself for being unable to keep it together that she'd lost her temper and snapped at him, then felt ten times worse for having done it. It had taken an hour of cajoling and back-rubbing to get her to relax this much. He hadn't questioned her, just held her and let her get it out of her system, then put her to bed.

It had to be another mood swing, but the most violent one yet. Dr. Mengis had found nothing wrong. No telling whether she'd be in a better mood if he did wake her, but it was a guarantee that she'd be angry if he didn't. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rubbed her back, watching her stir and the one visible eye crack open.

"Jean?" she murmured.

"Sorry, cygne, but Will and Bell are here. I know you would want to see them. How do you feel?"

A tear appeared, glittered briefly on her lashes, and slid down her nose. "I'm so sorry -- I behaved so badly -- "

"Come here."

She sat up and curled against him eagerly, pressing her nose against the collar of his uniform. While she composed herself, he held her and rubbed her back again. Her hair smelled faintly of the perfume she wore, something floral and Betazoid, he guessed. Unfamiliar.

"How are they?" she said at last.

"They're fine."

"How are you?"

He sighed deeply. "I can be fine. You?" His hand drifted to her belly. Once the pregnancy had started to show, she seemed to put on more weight daily. Much to her dismay. The days she had to let out the maternity uniform another notch were bad ones.

"I feel better. But I always do when I'm sitting in my husband's lap. Even if he's in uniform and we have guests waiting. Oh, you smell good. . . ."

Deanna straddled his thighs and put her hands on his shoulders. Her mood was turning, her teeth closing on his ear lobe, and he laughed at her. "Deebird, come on."

"I'd love to."

He caught her fingers short of undoing his jacket. "You know what I meant. Let's -- stop that. Stop it! Dee!"

The problem was, she knew she could get him distracted enough to go through with it. The bond was that strong, and thanks to her hyper-sensitivity to his emotions it made for interesting rounds of sparring. Luckily she didn't try it often, and when she did he could persuade her to back off without much effort. He'd never imagined having to fight to avoid sex. But there were times it simply wasn't appropriate, and they had guests, so this was one of them.

Her hands were too quick for him to catch them, rubbing him through his pants and slipping up his shirt, and she was distracting him with her lips and tongue along his jaw and the pressure of her breasts against his chest. "Stop it," he whispered, entirely unconvincing even to his own ears.

"You want to stop?" she breathed. "Please don't, please, it won't hurt...."

"Dee, you know better than this."

"You already have to change your uniform. Where's the harm?"

Her wriggling around in his lap, he realized, had been done sans underwear with her skirt pulled up. Anger spiked for a moment -- then twisted amusement. Another unimaginable thing, his horny wife all over him and he was getting angry about it.

"The harm is we are keeping our friends waiting."

"But I want you," she whispered. "I want you, inside me, Jean-Luc, please? Please?"

He shouldn't have looked in her eyes. They hovered a moment staring into each other's eyes -- she wasn't kidding, she wanted it _now._ So did he. What was she doing? This wasn't anything like her, not at all. But she already tore at his pants, freeing him from the constricting discomfort. She had him hard and aching for release, her mouth on his as she fondled and stroked with practiced hands. As inappropriate as it was, letting her finish what she'd started was, at this point, the only option -- he certainly couldn't walk out of the room in this state.

The instant he began to wonder what her definition of 'quick' was, she stopped that exquisite manipulation she was doing and settled over him, setting up a different set of sensations for him to enjoy. She wouldn't let him fall back in bed -- holding him in the same position, sitting on the edge of the mattress, she executed an active and sensuous lap dance while tearing off his comm badge, flinging it over her shoulder, and pulling her dress over her head.

He loved the feel of her writhing in his arms, smooth skin and soft gasps and lips drifting over his face when she wasn't kissing him -- this wasn't good, letting her get away with this. It wasn't good to set a precedent. But it wasn't as though they were about to go back on duty, it was only Will and Bell, and she enjoyed it. And he did, too, though he couldn't bring himself to be completely lost in it. Except. . . she did have a way of kissing him dizzy, and looking at him with that fire, until he couldn't seem to breathe and she seemed to be pulling him into her dark, dark eyes. . . .

They went off together, like firebirds. While lost in their own private little world, flying in heart fire, she smothered any noise either of them might have made in a kiss.

He caught his breath after holding her for a few moments -- she kept nuzzling up to him, kissing his neck and nibbling his ear. "And where did all this come from? Out of sorts all day long, and all of a sudden you're climbing all over me? Not that I'm complaining, it's much preferable to ordering you off the bridge and enduring the Betazoid Death Glare."

"I don't quite understand why. I just wanted, all of a sudden. Like I was intoxicated by you."

He snorted, mostly amused, and sighed. "Since you've already delayed us this much. . . ." Indulging in a leisurely kiss, he wished they could simply fall into bed and he could keep her there in his arms. She could have kept him busy longer, if he'd had the ability and inclination; she returned the kiss hungrily. But a nudge got her off his lap and moving -- friends waited, and she did want to see them.

He let her pull him in for a sonic shower. He did feel better, and who wouldn't feel a certain smug satisfaction about having Deanna doing ravenous lap-dancing after begging for it? Especially seeing the good mood it put her in. She hummed happily, even put on an extra burst of speed in getting dressed, putting on a uniform -- it would give him the barrier he'd probably need to keep his mind off more intimate interactions for the duration of their guests' visit, however long it turned out to be, and keep her honest too -- and tying back her hair.

She hesitated when they were both dressed and looked at him -- one of her admiring, 'my-toes-are-curling' looks. Definitely preferable to the Death Glare. They took a step toward each other and stood a few inches apart, her breath caressing his cheek as she leaned in.

"Come on -- and what exactly is our excuse for being in here so long?"

"A grumpy pregnant woman you had to placate? I took too long in the shower?"

"I'll just let you handle it, how's that? I'm afraid I'll look too smug."

Her smile broadened. "And I won't?"

Jean-Luc sniffed and forced himself to turn away. "Go on, or I'll just tell them to leave and then make you sit in my lap all afternoon."

As she moved past him toward the door, he felt her fingers sliding up his thigh. "As if you would have to _make_ me," she whispered, the words tickling his ear.


	3. Chapter 3

Jean-Luc sat in his favorite chair with one of the albums they'd borrowed from the Picard home. It was one he hadn't seen before. He'd brought it aboard after their visit to Earth; Marie had pointed out the albums in a chest in the master suite, under some old quilts.

Before he could open it, Deanna got home. He looked up at the sound of the door and smiled as she approached him. "Cygne. You're finally home."

"I had a date with a doctor, that I postponed from this morning thanks to the problem with the starbase." She had been working with the station commander, providing some staff to assist with repairs to their power systems. She went to the replicator. "Preset four."

"What did the doctor say?" Obviously nothing that dissuaded her from eating chocolate ice cream with fudge and caramel. He stood and moved to join her on the couch as she brought the bowl over.

"At five and a half months, the baby is healthy and so am I." Deanna patted the bulge in her maternity uniform. "Yves is putting on weight."

Jean-Luc reached over to put his hand on her abdomen. She put her hand over his, and they sat quietly. Yves rewarded them with a light thump against his palm. Deanna patted his hand and left it there to pick up her spoon.

"I hope you like chocolate, Yves," Jean-Luc said, watching her shovel ice cream into her mouth.

"What do you have there?" she asked, after swallowing her first bite.

"One of the albums from the house. It has some pictures I've never seen before." He opened it, picked up one of the prints, and held it up for her to see. It was one of him and Robert, aged five and twelve, respectively. "Strange how we always seemed to like each other in the pictures."

"I think you loved each other. Liking isn't always necessary to love." Deanna took another bite, clearly fighting to keep her sadness in check.

Jean-Luc put the picture back in the pages and closed the album. "What is this?" He set it aside, reached for her, moving closer so he could put his arm around her.

"Just hormones," she blurted, trying to shake it off. But she dropped the spoon in the bowl and put it on the end table, then covered her face with her hands. "I hate being a weepy mess."

"Dee."

She waved a hand as if fanning herself. "I was just thinking," she said, sounding defeated. "I haven't thought about my sister in a long time. It wasn't even so sad when I learned I had one that I never knew, I don't know why I'm feeling this way now!"

He almost quoted the counselor about feelings and hormones, but refrained once more from the impulse to attempt to fix something that upset her. She'd said the same thing quite a number of times. It usually meant she didn't need to be reasoned with, just comforted. She leaned on his shoulder, swiping at her face with her fingers.

"I love you, Jean-Luc," she murmured, drawing up her knees and leaning into him.

He relaxed against the back of the couch and held his wife. Like every other time she'd gotten weepy, it took a little time to settle, but she got there. Then he was holding a happy wife, who sat up again and kissed him. Then her stomach growled. Time for dinner. It didn't matter what time of day it really was, with a pregnant wife, it was always dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

"We'll be turning in the final report at the end of the week," Jean-Luc said as he entered the officer's mess with his first officer. The current system survey would have been done early, if not for malfunctions. "If we're on schedule. Do you anticipate the sensor array will be repaired by tomorrow?"

"I have engineering crews working a double shift to make it happen." Deanna went to the replicators and stood there for a few moments. "Computer, a glass of ebi'lan and a cobb salad."

He watched her carry the bowl, twice the size of an ordinary bowl that one could expect from a replicator. He asked for a sandwich and glass of water, then crossed the room to sit with her at their usual table in the corner. Deanna pulled out the chair, placed bowl and glass on the table, sat down, and paused. She couldn't move the chair closer. Her abdomen filled her lap. 

"Only two more months," he commented. 

Deanna sighed and reached for the bowl. Holding it in one hand and eating with the other was her choice today. Sometimes, she sat at a right angle and leaned over the table. "I feel like a whale."

"You don't look like one." He picked up his glass and watched her collect salad on the tines of her fork. "Is the indigestion better today? I haven't seen you since breakfast."

"Not noticeably. I stopped in sickbay before I went to the bridge this morning."

Jean-Luc watched her eat a mouthful of salad, her expression suggesting that it wasn't tasting good to her. Nothing seemed to, lately. He didn't express concern; he'd been worried on and off for weeks, and she knew that already, knew it was difficult for him to watch her suffer through what the doctor told him were common issues for pregnant women. She didn't complain but if he asked she would tell him how sore and tired she was. How she struggled with the changes to her metabolism. At least the hormonal mood swings had decreased from daily to occasional.

"Will you be at the concert tonight?"

Deanna shook her head. "I don't think I would be able to sit that long." 

He picked up the sandwich and started to eat, wishing he could do more to make her more comfortable. 

"At least you aren't as anxious about me as you were," she commented, raising another forkful of salad to her mouth.

"I'm not?" 

She smiled at last, giving him a fond look. "Worry is not the same as the panicky sort of anxiety you had just a few months ago."

"You're trying very hard not to call it fear. Terror, fear, my own personal red alert." He smirked at the memory of leaping out of bed one time, convinced that her crying out in her sleep must be an emergency. 

"You've gotten used to my cravings, my night terrors, my mood swings and my new and amusing shape. You've also refrained from commenting on the circus tent I wear every day," she said, waving a hand at the pleats and gussets down the side of the maternity tunic. 

He sighed at her self mockery, putting down his sandwich. When he sat gazing at her she stopped eating and returned the look. She seemed herself today, which he appreciated. 

"Jean?"

"I wish you wouldn't talk about my wife that way," he said quietly. 

She blinked, and just like that, she was crying. Not in the usual hormonal way, or in anger, but she looked away and started to shake her head. "I feel so clumsy and huge! I turned and bumped into someone just today, I can't sit at a table and eat normally, and...."

He thought he knew what she wasn't saying. Glancing around the empty room, he thought about the last time they had sex, and chose his words carefully. "I can tell you're having difficulty with the changes. I wish there was something I could do other than repeat that you look wonderful to me."

The words were nothing new. The emotions that went with how he felt while holding her naked body, making love to her, paired with the reassurance, made a difference. Her empathy was incredibly acute while pregnant; she went wide-eyed, then smiled, her happiness breaking through the tears like a rising sun.

"Apparently there is," she said.

"I wouldn't mind if it didn't take two months to have the baby. Whenever the doctor says he is ready would be fine."

She laughed. He was mostly joking, but part of him wished pregnancy were less arduous than it appeared to be. A fair bit of the day he had his confident first officer, but the effort to maintain that was fatiguing for her, and he wondered if there would soon be a day that she couldn't maintain it and have to be put on short term disability leave.

But, for now, she went back to eating her salad and started to talk about needing to run a level three diagnostic before they were under way again.


	5. Chapter 5

Jean-Luc closed the book and looked down at the faces of the four children sitting on cushions. The daycare was only children under six, and Lindy was front and center, her friends Tayla and Mace on her right and left. All three had listened raptly while he read the story out loud. The three-year-old chewed on her own fingers and hadn't seemed interested in the improbable story of a Vulcan visiting a classroom full of kids, written in one- and two-syllable words.

The toddler clapped with the others, however. Lindy rose on her knees, to drape herself against one of his as he sat in the chair. "Uncle Captain, can you read another?"

"It's lunch time," he said, glancing at the side of the room where Malia and her helper were setting out the children's food. "I'll be back in a couple of weeks."

"WAIT!" Lindy yelled, jumping up and racing off to the row of cubbies where the children kept their personal things. She returned with a large stuffed animal, brown with a mane and two stuffed white tusks sticking out of its mouth. "Take this!"

"Lindy," Malia said with the patience she was famous for. "What's the rule about toys?"

"Keep your toys in your cubby until it's time to go," Mace chimed in. "That's the rule."

"Except for play time," Tayla exclaimed, correcting her friend.

"It's not a toy, it's a gift," Lindy cried, shoving the stuffed animal in Jean-Luc's lap. "It's for the baby!"

"Commander Troi hasn't had the baby yet," he explained patiently. The children asked every time he came for story time about the baby. They fully expected Yves to join them any time now, and explanations that they would all age out of the daycare into school before Yves was old enough to transition from the nursery to daycare failed to quell their excitement. He now settled for deflecting and distracting, when they asked. Picking up the toy, he realized that it was a scowling plush targ, with bushy black eyebrows, wide round eyes, and hooves.

"That's okay," Lindy said with great enthusiasm. "You can give Mr. Tiggles to him when he's born!"

"Lindy, are you sure you want to do that? You love Mr. Tiggles," Malia said, coming to stand next to Jean-Luc's chair. "You've had him since you were tiny."

"But I'm grown up now, and Yves will be tiny. He should have Mr. Tiggles to protect him," Lindy insisted, holding her hands up in front of her chest, as if begging him to believe her.

"Thank you, Lindy," he said with a warm smile. "But I'll only take him with the agreement that you can come take him home if you change your mind. Because I'm sure he will miss you."

Lindy laughed and jumped for joy, lunged forward, but caught herself before she hugged his legs. The kids knew he wasn't appreciative of such attentions, though that awareness could be overridden by excitement at any time.

Jean-Luc stood up -- Mace was running for the cubbies and if he didn't go there would be too many gifts to carry. "See you at practice, Malia. Good bye, children."

"Bye! Bye!" The kids laughed and waved, started to move toward him, but the toddler giggled and hugged Tayla, and Mace on the return from his cubby threw the toy he'd gone to get at Lindy.

He headed for the door as Malia announced lunch to distract the kids from further shenanigans. He carried the targ in one hand and made his way to quarters. Deanna was there, having her own lunch. She looked up from her bowl of soup and raised both brows.

"Lindy gave Yves a present today," he explained, dropping the targ on the easy chair and heading for the table. He leaned down to kiss her on the lips, and moved to sit across from her. At eight months, she was doing well. Nausea had gone away, mood swings become less frequent, her libido equalized, and the uncontrollable anxiety diminished greatly. It had eased his mind to see her smiling most of the time, and he recognized at last how much of his anxiety had been due to watching her struggle.

This was, of course, what he'd always feared. He had always believed a relationship, a family, children, would change him and be an impairment to his career. But the _Enterprise_ had started to shift his perspective. Families had lost someone once in a while, but he'd seen -- when he started to pay attention -- children grow and be happy, officers taking time off duty to be parents, and learned to stop thinking in absolutes himself. To enjoy the mundane moments.

Deanna drank some of her water and watched him with her usual happy glow. "How was story time?"

"Good. They wanted to hear that old chestnut, 'When a Vulcan Came to Class,' for the tenth time."

"Maybe we should write a sequel. 'When a Captain Came to Class.' Starring Captain Picard."

Smirking, he refrained from comment on that idea. "I think we should read to Yves from the collected works of Shakespeare."

"We should also read Starfleet regulations - give him an edge when he goes to the Academy." She scooped up soup in her spoon.

"Decartes. Socrates. Wordsworth."

"Some of the old westerns, like my father did," she said. "He would probably also enjoy Dixon Hill. At least until he started to understand language. Then we'll probably have to shift over to the usual simple, straightforward, easy toddler texts." She grimaced suddenly, leaning forward, dropping the spoon in the bowl.

"Cygne?"

"It's probably just one of those random contractions. The doctor warned us about it, remember?"

"We should be sure," he said, rising from the chair. He knew well enough that not having it checked would lead to increased anxiety for both of them.

Deanna got up slowly, her arms around her belly, and started to move toward the door. The maternity uniform was pushed to the limits as she was on the verge of month nine. He smiled, feeling perfectly at ease despite the possibility that whatever was going on was some symptom of concern.

They would be parents, any time now. And it was exactly what he wanted.


End file.
